


Troubleshooting

by Dien



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dien/pseuds/Dien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to Bad Code, or more accurately I guess, a missing scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Troubleshooting

His training said _get out of the station, now, now, every second counts_ , but as he hauled Finch to his feet and flicked his gaze around the exits, the sound of running feet was already reaching his ears-- running feet getting closer, police or security drawn by the gunshot. Exits were a no-go. They went the opposite direction, further into the station, the tunnels leading to the trains.

Finch was in-and-out, sagging heavily against him. “Stay with me, Harold,” Reese muttered, half-dragging, half-carrying him.

He scanned the display boards for northbound trains, for any trains really, as long as they were leaving _soon_. Baltimore. Five minutes, doors thick with passengers cramming on. Good enough. He hauled himself and Finch into the swarm.

It was easier than it ought have been to calculate the bump and jostle and the deft pluck of a pair of tickets from a young man's back jeans pocket. He and his girlfriend would have an awkward time explaining it to the conductor but guilt was the last thing on Reese's mind at the moment. He just hoped the tickets didn't have names printed on them; they often did, these days.

Getting Finch up the stairs was a minor ordeal. Finch stumbled against other passengers, tripped in the aisle, and Reese's breath caught in his throat each time, until he finally had Finch seated by a window. 

Finch looked like hell. His eyes were puffy and red with what Reese guessed was a lack of sleep; his jaw raggy with silvered stubble that added ten years to his age, although that might have also been the pinched and drawn look to his cheeks, mouth, the skin around his eyes. He stank.

Reese had smelled worse before-- far worse-- on himself no less, the stink of days of alcohol and cardboard boxes-- and it wasn't the smell that drew him up, it was that it was _Finch_ , Finch who was always so meticulously neat, so pressed and polished and trimmed and aftershaved, Finch with that aura of expensive civilization that surrounded him like a three-foot sphere at all times. Croquillants and pocket squares. 

It was fundamentally wrong for Finch to smell of stale sweat and a lack of showering. Reese's hands shook a little-- _stress reaction_ , he informed himself, _adrenaline crash_ \-- as he performed a more thorough inspection of his boss to make sure he wasn't injured.

No blood. No obvious injuries. Finch had a hand bandaged, swathed thick and white and professionally. He forced himself not to wonder what lay under the gauze. There was a small smear of dried blood on Finch's collar, the dot of a tiny scab on his neck. Needle prick, said his years of CIA training. 

The glassy look in Finch's eyes and the lethargic drag of his body made a little more sense. Reese felt an incongruous pang of relief: drugs faded, drugs passed, drugs left the system and Finch would come back to himself, just like he had after the ecstasy; there wasn't something fundamentally broken beneath that.

“You alright?” he asked softly, for want of something to say, and Finch stared at him from a million miles distant, owlish and lost behind his glasses. 

The train started to move. Reese came as close to relaxing as he had in forty-eight hours. 

“I'm tired, Mr. Reese,” Finch said after a pause long enough that he probably wasn't actually answering the question. His voice was thin and hoarse; it wavered from vowels to consonants like a sparrow hopping from twig to twig, one step away from outright flight.

It was very sweet to Reese's ears. 

“Get some rest, then,” he said, and risked a squeeze to Finch's forearm. “It's okay.”

***

Finch slept all the way to Baltimore. Reese gave himself a migraine with tension, with waiting: waiting for the conductors to squint at his tickets and say there was a problem (there wasn't), waiting at every stop for police officers to board the train, waiting for the announcement over the intercom that the train needed to halt, waiting for an excuse to launch himself back into action again. He studied the window, the frame and the emergency release. He could carry Finch easily, he was sure; if they had to, the window was a feasible escape route.

He busied himself as best he could. He called the pilot of the private jet that had taken him from Texas to Maryland, and settled the bill with one of the credit cards Finch had set him up with way back when; he texted Carter to let her know Finch was found. 

He almost called her but he didn't trust his voice. She'd ask questions. She'd ask who and how and why and where and he didn't want that, not now, and she'd ask _You both okay?_ and he didn't want that either. 

He wanted to turn his phone off but he was too conscious that it was how Fusco and Carter could both contact him and things might still come up. He set it to vibrate and shoved it into a pocket. Then he went back to waiting.

Waiting for Finch to wake up. Waiting for it to be real, waiting to breathe. 

Finch snored softly. In his sleep, his hands twitched, like he was hunting a phantom keyboard. Reese stared at his slack face and laced his own hands tight in his lap, so that he wouldn't be tempted to grab at him like a life preserver.

A half-hour out of Baltimore and Reese realized he needed to piss. He tamped down on the urge. He wasn't letting Finch out of his sight, not even for a trip to the train bathroom. He'd wait until Baltimore, until there was that much more of a barrier of safety and anonymity between them and pursuit.

***

He woke Finch with a touch to his shoulder, then a shake when Finch kept snoring. 

The eyes behind the glasses were marginally clearer, but they still took long seconds to focus on him, during which Finch's breathing was a jagged stutter of fight-or-flight. 

“It's me, Harold,” Reese whispered. “Come on. Time to go.”

Finch's hands held tight onto his arm as they maneuvered, out of the seat, down the aisle, among the other passengers, down the stairs. Out into noise and crowd, which Reese settled around himself like a camo suit, like familiarity. 

There were stairs to maneuver-- awful, steep, demanding stairs that clearly predated any era of concerns about accessibility. Reese gritted his teeth at them for Finch's sake and weighed the need to stand behind Finch in case he fell versus his own need to be in front of him, in guard position. He wound up behind him, every sense ratcheted to tension. Three times Finch stumbled. Each time Reese caught him before it could be disastrous, and eventually they reached the ground floor.

Finch stopped moving when he did, standing there with fuzzy but absolute trust that Reese would lead them somewhere safe. Reese felt something thick well up in his throat, wedge there and get in the way of his lungs doing what they were supposed to. He'd felt it before, hints of it-- with Andrea Gutierrez, with Judge Gates, with Scott Powell-- the knowledge that good lives hung on his actions and that for better or worse they had put their faith in him, a sacred obligation that he could not fail, an open innocent trust that he was the good man they needed.

It was worse with Finch. Maybe because Finch had given so much to him, had been the first one to think he was still a good man. It almost overwhelmed him. He stood there trying to catch his breath, leaning his head back to stare at the Baltimore station ceiling to hide the wetness in his eyes.

It was hard, living again. It was hard being whole again. 

“Where are we going?” Finch asked simply when Reese just kept standing there, breathing hard. 

“Back home,” he answered. 

But first, the bathroom.

***

He led Finch to stand against the men's room wall, setting him there as if he were a doll to be arranged, then turning his back to him in order to hit up the urinal. Finch didn't resist the leading, didn't question, just sagged back against the tile with his eyes closed and waited. 

Reese was washing his hands when he caught movement from his peripheral vision, Finch lurching-- he spun with water arcing from his hands ready to try for the dive and catch before Finch's head could hit tile or metal. 

But Finch wasn't falling, he was just stumbling into one of the stalls. Reese stood there with water dripping from his hands, useless as he listened to Finch dry-heaving into one of the toilets.

The bathroom didn't even have paper towels he could moisten and offer. Just those damn air dryers.

***

“I think I need to eat something,” Finch said when they left the bathroom, Finch stumbling and gripping his arm once more for balance. Reese thought of the fifty or so times he'd been tempted to offer an arm-- days when Finch's limp had been worse, or Finch's arms had been full, or the sole of Finch's shoe had caught on a curb-- all the times he'd always restrained himself, sensing that Finch's pride wouldn't welcome it.

For now, at least, the pride was nowhere in evidence. Left somewhere behind them, with Finch's aftershave and the pretense that the world was civilized. 

“You sure you want to try?” Reese asked, shooting Finch's pallid, clammy face a sidelong look.

“No, but I think if I don't I'll pass out,” Finch said distantly. Reese grunted and scanned the station for their few options: a Dunkin' Donuts and a café. He steered them for the café.

“When did you last eat?” 

There was no immediate answer. Reese shot a sidelong look at him; Finch's face was working in sluggish thought. 

“I don't know,” he said at last. “Apple. She-- she fed me--”

Finch started trembling violently. He looked ready to retch again. Reese swore to himself and wrapped his arm around the shorter man, got him inside the café and to a corner table.

“Easy-- easy-- it's okay--” Reese whispered, kneeling on the chair next to him and rubbing at Finch's thin shoulders until Finch started to breathe easier.

Finch put his elbows on the tabletop, pressed his face into his non-bandaged hand while his shoulders jerked beneath Reese's hands. “Sorry, sorry-- I d-don't know what's-- wrong with m-me--”

 _You were kidnapped,_ Reese thought. Aloud he only said, “Just breathe, Harold. Nothing to be sorry for. Deep breaths.”

Reese wound up paying seven dollars for a fruit cup. It didn't look very good, but better than the café's greasy sandwiches, resting under a heat lamp, in terms of how it'd set on Finch's stomach. He sat and watched Finch eat it, once again lacing his hands in his lap to keep from trying to take the spoon from Finch's finely trembling fingers and do it himself. 

Finch got it all down, at least. He guessed that was something. A little color was back in Finch's cheeks. That was better yet. Reese slid his feet forward under the table and bumped Finch's, because he was keeping his hands clenched in his lap, but he had to touch. He had to let himself have that reassurance. He needed it.

“What happened to your hand?” he asked when Finch at last laid down the plastic spoon. Finch's fingers jerked and skittered on the tabletop in response. 

“I-- I fell,” Finch said, eyes somewhere above Reese's shoulder. “I fell on the sidewalk and--”

 _“Harold,_ ” Reese said, hearing his own jangling nerves sharpen his tone. Finch froze and then, cautiously, his eyes crept back to Reese's face. They stared at each other a moment, wordless, over the plastic table and the empty fruit cup and the spoon. Finch was breathing shallowly.

“She cut it,” Finch blurted after a few seconds. “She-- she wanted a distraction and-- to prove a point-- why-- why did I just--” He put his face into his hand again. 

Reese reached across the table and covered Finch's bandaged hand with his own, lightly. “It's alright, Finch. It's alright. It's normal-- if you've been held by someone--”

 _“Don't tell me that,”_ Finch snapped, voice high and strident with stress, dropping his hand to smack it down on the table. “Don't-- don't _tell_ me-- I'm not--”

The café was nearly empty, but the cashier was watching them, Finch's outburst having drawn her attention. Reese's training and instincts urged him _get up, go, we're attracting attention, move move move._

He couldn't yet. He had to fix this. Finch was counting on him.

“You're not what?” he asked, keeping his voice level. 

“I'm not that weak,” Finch whispered, his voice shaking. “I'm not. Don't condescend to me, don't you do that, _don't.”_

The thing in his chest hurt, like a vise grip on the organs he needed to function. Finch was trying to pull his hand back and Reese trapped it with his fingers, pinning his wrist firmly to the tabletop.

“Finch. _Harold._ It's got nothing to do with weakness. It doesn't mean you're weak, it doesn't mean anything. It's a survival mechanism, _listen_ to me.”

Finch struggled weakly against Reese's not-a-grip then gave it up, jacketed shoulders slumping. “Tell me you've done it, then,” he breathed. His pulse was hammering away beneath Reese's fingers. “Of course you haven't. Not _John Reese.”_

He gritted his teeth. He wanted to grab Finch, shake him. Wanted to pull him into a hard hug and not let go until he'd driven knowledge home and the bitterness from Finch's voice.

“That's different,” he said instead, even and calm. “Finch, I was _trained_ for captivity, for interrogation. I was conditioned to be able to tolerate that. You don't need to feel weak, Harold, you're not. Your brain is just doing its best to process what happened.”

Finch tugged away again, and this time Reese let him, feeling helpless. “My _brain_ can't afford to start distorting things,” Finch answered, closing his eyes. “It's all I've got.”

Reese sat there and waited for Finch's breathing to even out again. Finch's shoulders hunched up to his ears, then dropped again.

“She only had me two days,” Finch said, and his voice was helpless and small and defeated. 

***

Reese scanned the departure board again. New York, New York. Finch stood next to him, leaning against his arm, not with his full weight like before but there. He wondered if Finch realized he was doing it. 

“There's a clothiers here,” Finch said, and his voice was the strongest it had been since Reese had caught sight of him in the wheelchair. “Joseph A. Bank. I'd like to get a new shirt. Do we have time for that?”

Reese took his gaze from the departure board to look around Pennsylvania Station. “We can make time, but... where'd you see the shop?”

“I didn't, but it's here, Union Station has one, it's--” Finch paused, and did his careful turn from the waist, looking. Then back to Reese, brows furrowed. His eyes were not entirely clear yet.

“We're in Baltimore, Finch,” Reese said gently. “You slept from Washington to here.”

“Oh,” said Finch, deflating. He was small again, lost again. “Oh.” 

“Don't worry, even your rumpled Armani looks better than what everyone else is wearing,” Reese lied. 

“It's Saint Laurie,” Finch said faintly. Reese tugged him towards the ticket counter.

***

Finch spent twelve minutes in the bathroom on the Acela Express. Reese watched the doorway from ten feet away, not looking at his watch although the impulse to do so was strong, not hammering on the plastic door and asking if Finch was alright although the impulse to do that was also strong.

Finch emerged damp around the face and collar. Reese was just as glad the travel shop in Baltimore hadn't had razors for sale; he wouldn't have trusted Finch's still-tremoring hands with one and doubted that Finch would have accepted assistance. Harold would just have to stay stubbly for a few more hours. 

It took Finch an appreciable portion of eternity to navigate the ten feet to their seats, or so it seemed to Reese. He again did not offer help.

Finch sank down next to him with a noise like a tire letting out air. 

“Better?” Reese asked, and Finch nodded like even the motion of his head was a labor. 

“Shouldn't you be debriefing me,” Finch asked some time later, with New Jersey out the window. Reese shook his head a little.

“It can wait. You should try and get some more sleep.”

“I don't think I'll have to try very hard,” Finch said with the barest suggestion of humor, and true to his words he was snoring again in five.

Reese let his spine sink into the Amtrak seat. He was tired-- an abstract thing, like awareness of what season it was-- he hadn't slept much in the days since Finch had been taken, and it was starting to catch up to him. He wouldn't sleep on the train, of course. Wouldn't sleep until Finch was back in New York, in the library, in the territory they'd marked and claimed as safe. Perimeter secured.

The train jostled and rocked, jostled and rocked, white noise threatening his resolution, but it would take more than that. 

In Philadelphia, in the station, the noise of passengers getting on and off half-roused Finch. The smaller man made an inquisitive noise, sleepy and incoherent.

“No,” said Reese, “not there yet.”

Finch nodded and settled down again, this time slumped against Reese's shoulder. 

He held his breath, as long as he could, fearful to move. He exhaled slow and cautious, but Finch was deeply asleep once more. The train started forward again. 

Careful, careful, Reese lifted an arm and settled it around Finch's skinny shoulders and damaged back. He turned his head to him and breathed in, uncaring that Finch still smelled, that the spiky hair that tickled against his chin and nose was still unwashed. Finch smelled of Finch, as far as Reese was concerned.

The cities and fields of the eastern seaboard grew dark, out the window. Reese slid into a half-doze despite himself, hearing Harold's breathing slow and steady, watching Harold's hands twitch against dream keyboards once more.

In Newark Finch stirred again. The slightest motion brought Reese back to wakefulness, and he braced for Finch to pull away.

Instead Finch looked up at him, eyes half-lidded, fuzzy. He still looked like hell.

Finch touched him. The center of his chest, his white dress shirt. Finch's fingers fluttered like his namesake against his body.

“Good code,” he said with a slow blink.

“Yeah,” Reese answered in little more than a whisper. “Yeah. Your phone code was very good.”

“No,” Finch said vaguely, shaking his head. The fingers skipped up higher, fumbled against his jaw, brushed Reese's motionless lips, then dropped again like it was all too much work. His eyes closed once more.

“Wake me when we get home, John,” he murmured, and lowered his head back to Reese's shoulder.

“Will do,” Reese said. “It's alright. I'm here.”

He thought Finch smiled.


End file.
